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“Well, he is the butler, and this is his house,” said Vimes.
“No, sir, it’s your house, and since I am your personal manservant I, by the irrevocable laws of the servants’ hall, outrank every one of the lazy buggers! I’ll show them how we do things in the real world, sir, don’t you worry—”
He was interrupted by a heavy knock at the door, followed by a determined rattling of the doorknob. Willikins opened the door and Young Sam stomped in and announced, “Reading!”
Vimes picked up his son and sat him on a chair. “How was your afternoon, my lad?”
“Do you know,” said Young Sam, as if imparting the results of strict research, “cows do really big floppy poos, but sheep do small poos, like chocolates.”
Vimes tried not to look at Willikins, who was shaking with suppressed laughter. He managed to keep his own expression solemn and said, “Well, of course, sheep are smaller.”
Young Sam considered this. “Cow poos go flop,” he said. “It never said that in Where’s My Cow?” Young Sam’s voice betrayed a certain annoyance that this important information had been withheld. “Miss Felicity Beedle wouldn’t have left it out.”
Vimes sighed. “I just bet she wouldn’t.”
Willikins opened the door. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it, then, and see you later, sir.”
“Willikins?” said Vimes, just as the man had his hand on the doorknob. “You appear to think that my brass knuckles are inferior to yours. Is that so?”
Willikins smiled. “You’ve never really agreed with the idea of the spiked ones, have you, sir?” He carefully shut the door behind him.
Young Sam was already reading by himself these days, which was a great relief. Fortunately the works of Miss Felicity Beedle did not consist solely of exciting references to poo, in all its manifestations, but her output of small volumes for young children was both regular and highly popular, at least among the children. This was because she had researched her audience with care, and Young Sam had laughed his way through The Wee Wee Men, The War with the Snot Goblins, and Geoffrey and the Land of Poo. For boys of a certain age, they hit the squashy spot. At the moment he was giggling and choking his way through The Boy Who Didn’t Know How to Pick His Own Scabs, an absolute hoot for a boy just turned six. Sybil pointed out that the books were building Young Sam’s vocabulary, and not just about lavatorial matters, and it was indeed true that he was beginning, with encouragement, to read books in which nobody had a bowel movement at all. Which, when you came to think about it, was a mystery all by itself.
Vimes carried his son to bed after ten minutes of enjoyable listening, and had managed to shave and get into the feared evening clothes a few moments before his wife knocked on the door. Separate dressing rooms and bathrooms, Vimes thought…if you had the money, there was no better way to keep a happy marriage happy. And in order to keep a happy marriage happy he allowed Sybil to bustle in, wearing, in fact, a bustle,* to adjust his shirt, tweak his collar and make him fit for company.
And then she said, “I understand you gave the blacksmith a short lesson in unarmed combat, my dear…” The pause hung in the air like a silken noose.
Vimes managed, “There’s something wrong here, I know it.”
“I think so, too,” said Sybil.
“You do?”
“Yes, Sam, but this is not the time. We have guests arriving at any minute. If you could refrain from throwing any of them over your shoulder in between courses I would be grateful.” This was a terrific scolding by Sybil’s normally placid standards. Vimes did what any prudent husband would do, which was dynamically nothing. Suddenly all downstairs was full of voices and the noise of carriages crunching over the gravel. Sybil trimmed her sails and headed down to be the gracious hostess.
Despite what his wife liked to imply, Vimes was rather good at dinners, having sat through innumerable civic affairs in Ankh-Morpork. The trick was to let the other diners do the talking while agreeing with them occasionally, giving himself time to think about other things.
Sybil had made certain that this evening’s dinner was a light occasion. The guests were mostly people of a certai
n class who lived in the country but were not, as it were, of it. Retired warriors; a priest of Om; Miss Pickings, a spinster, together with her companion, a strict-looking lady with short hair and a man’s shirt and pocket watch; and, yes, Miss Felicity Beedle. Vimes thought he had put his foot in it when he said, “Oh yes, the poo lady,” but she burst out laughing and shook his hand, saying, “Don’t worry, your grace, I wash mine thoroughly after writing!” And it was a big laugh. She was a small woman with the strange aspect that you see in some people that causes them to appear to be subtly vibrating even when standing perfectly still. You felt that if some interior restraint suddenly broke, the pent-up energy released would catapult her through the nearest window.
Miss Beedle prodded him in the stomach. “And you are the famous Commander Vimes. Come to arrest us all, have you?” Of course, you got this all the time if you didn’t stop Sybil accepting the invitation to yet another posh society do. But while Miss Beedle laughed, silence fell on the other guests like a cast-iron safe. They were scowling at Miss Beedle, and Miss Beedle was staring intently at Vimes, and Vimes knew that expression. It was the expression of somebody with a story to tell. Certainly this was no time to broach the subject, and so Vimes filed it under “interesting.”
Whatever Vimes’s misgivings, Ramkin Hall did a damn good dinner and—and this was the important thing—the dictates of popular social intercourse decreed that Sybil had to allow a menu full of things that would not be permitted at home if Vimes had asked for them. It’s one thing to act as arbiter of your own husband’s tastes, but it is frowned on to do the same to your guests.
Across the table from him a retired military man was being assured by his wife that he did not, contrary to what he himself believed, like potted shrimps. In vain the man protested weakly that he thought he did like potted shrimps, to get the gentle response, “You may like potted shrimps, Charles, but they do not like you.”
Vimes felt for the man, who seemed puzzled at having developed enemies among the lower crustacea. “Well, er, does lobster like me, dear?” he said, in a voice that did not express much hope.
“No, dear, it does not get on with you at all. Remember what happened at the Parsleys’ whist evening.”
The man looked at the groaning sideboard and tried: “Do you think the scallops could get on with me for five minutes or so?”
“Good heavens no, Charles.”
He cast a glance at the sideboard again. “I expect the green salad is my bosom friend, though, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely, dear!”
